


Acts Of Peace

by BeaRyan



Category: The Order (TV 2019)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fake Marriage, I get past them but you can't pass them without seeing them on the side of the highway, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Virginity, and I'd never let Gabi do anything too terrible to him, arranged marriage has dubcon issues built into the trope, come on guys it's randall, he's not a coercive guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28220904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaRyan/pseuds/BeaRyan
Summary: Gabrielle Dupres is no one's virgin sacrifice.Set vaguely between seasons one and two.  AU/canon divergent.  A pretty traditional arranged marriage fic. Gabrielle's POV. Check the tags please.
Relationships: Randall Carpio/Gabrielle Dupres
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Acts Of Peace

I take a step backwards, towards the door, but the line of wolves is there, blocking the door. “No. No way.” Vera has to be out of her mind. Marry a werewolf? It’s too much to ask. 

“Ms. Dupres, someone has to do it. If we bind our societies under the Law of Aphrodite then they can’t strike against us and we won’t be constantly giving them headaches with our magic.” 

“You don’t care about their headaches. You just don’t want them to know what we’re doing.” 

Vera barely bothers to give a half shrug.

“Which one do I have to marry?” I ask. 

We both turn to Hamish who looks to the wolves. None of them step forward to volunteer. “We’ll let you know.” 

***

The dresses are all as ugly as I’d expect from off the rack wedding wear. I guess they’re appropriate for something as trashy as an arranged marriage, but I hate them anyway. Married to some college boy with internal carpeting? No. I was supposed to meet an investment banker when I was 26, get married at 28, and then … I don’t know. My ten year plan only covers the next ten years. 

I want power and respect, OK? The Order is one part of the plan. I don’t mind killing for them, but marrying a werewolf is a big ask. The temptation to run is strong, but then what happens? I get powdered or killed. Not acceptable alternatives. 

It’s been two days and I still don’t know which one I have to marry. I’ve run through the possibilities a thousand times but I keep getting the same answers. 50% chance of disaster, 25% chance of greatness, 25% chance of meh. 

Lilith. Ew. She’s mean. And a girl. My father would disown me. Magic is swell but money makes the world go round. 

Hamish: Also ew. Teacher vibes, probably because he teaches. 

Randall: Himbo. Safe but unremarkable and probably a morning person. Not what I had in mind. 

Jack: Hot. In The Order. We could be a power couple. Definitely my preference. 

***

Fucking hell.  
Werewolf Randall Carpio won the right to marry me in a game of beer pong. There is no part of that sentence that is anywhere close to OK. 

***

It’s hard to feel comfortable in Vera’s office, and I’m certain that’s on purpose. The decor is Adams family chic, and honestly I don’t get it. Her house is just the opposite so I know she has taste, she just doesn’t show it at work. 

She taps her pen then without looking up says, “You are a virgin, correct, Ms. Dupres?”

If she was looking at me I’d melt into the floor with embarrassment. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

“I’m not interested in the details of your reviriginization prayers or which orifices count or whatever else freshmen are into these days. Magic is about intent. Do you consider yourself to be a virgin, yes or no?” 

This is humiliating. “Yes.” 

“Good. That’s required for the bonding to work.”

“Does that mean Randall’s a virgin, too, or is this more ancient sexist bullshit?” 

She doesn’t answer my question and instead plonks a tacky glass vase on her desk. “This is the Chalice of Aphrodite. It will glow when the marriage sealing is initiated and you will then have 30 days to voluntarily consummate the marriage before the bond becomes null.” 

The ‘voluntarily’ is a big relief. There’s no magical incentive for him to force anything so now it’s just about character, and all reports are that Randall’s decent if basic and kind of ADHD. I clarify what I think Vera’s said, “If I don’t bone him in a month we’re magically divorced?” 

She rubs her temples and gives me a tight smile. “And the truce with the wolves is voided. They’ll know because they’ll hear the ringing from our spells again. I would prefer to have some warning before the light goes out.” She leans back in her chair and looks at me as kindly as I’ve ever seen her look at anyone, so not all that kind but she doesn't look like she’s about to throw me in a lake either. “There’s a limit to what I’m willing to ask of acolytes and this spell reaches it. There’s no obligation to consummate the marriage, but I would prefer to know in advance if-”

“I’m not going to do it. Him. Anything.” My heart lifts for the first time in days. “We’ll do the ceremony and they’ll think we’re neutered but really we’ve just got a 30 day jump on them.” 

“Very well. If that’s your preference then that’s the plan. You may go.” 

I make a run for it before she can change her mind. Only after the door closes does it hit me that I might have been able to get them to switch the groom to Jack. Before I’m out of the main chamber the second realization hits me. Randall will be offering me obligation dick. Rude. It’s in the same category as a pity fuck and I’m definitely not having it. 

You know what he’s getting instead? Blue balls. The bluest. 

***

The day of our wedding Randall wears a suit someone else must have picked out for him. It’s well made and I’m pretty sure it’s been tailored. I’ve had my hair and makeup professionally done so these dumb wolves will think this is real. There are flowers everywhere, too, and fairy lights. It’s high end, dressy casual, and too close to what I’d want for my real wedding. 

When we say I do (thankfully they don’t make us say more than that) I’m fighting back tears. This wasn’t how my first marriage was supposed to happen. I don’t even know him. Name, major and the fact that he’s a werewolf and that’s pretty much it. He squeezes my hand and he’s got no game face at all. He was pushed into this, too. Vera pronounces us bonded under the rules of Aphrodite, and Randall gives my cheek a quick brush with his lips then whispers in my ear, “We’ll get through this.” 

I guess that’s why this kind of bonding works to end wars. The only person who really understands me today is on the other side until we theoretically got rid of sides. I still hate him, stupid wolf, but his human form has broad shoulders and kind eyes and I guess it could be worse. At least he’s not old and pretentious or mean. 

There’s music and acolytes buzz around passing out champagne and finger foods, but Randall and I are still standing where we were when the ceremony ended. People glance over at us occasionally as if I can be expected to sparkle and shine no matter what. The problem with crafting an image of perfection is people get used to it. No matter what happens I’m supposed to be flawless as a diamond. Today I feel like glass. 

Randall leans towards me. “You want to get our first dance over with or should we let Vera and Hamish dictate that, too?” 

Control sounds good, and I reach up to put my hands around his neck and do the Middle School Sway. 

“Hamish made me learn to waltz if you want to wait for one of those.”

“Let’s just do this.” 

He barely touches my hips as he rests a hand on either side and he keeps as much space between us as our height difference and the length of my arms allows. We shuffle a little bit, and the string players shift to something I vaguely recognize but can’t quite pin down. Randall snorts. “Gotta be Vera. Hamish would have them play an opera and give me crap for not recognizing it.” 

“What is this song?” 

He sings to me, “I can’t help falling in love with you,” and it takes a minute for me to realize those are the lyrics and not a declaration. Vera probably could have spelled him to love me if I’d asked. Should I have asked? He’s premed. Tall. Smells good. Must be cologne but I’ll take it. I’d expected a whiff of dog to hang around him. 

Randall’s paws are settled in the safety zone of my sides, and if our wedding reception were supervised by nuns we’d still be OK. I miss a step as it hits me how badly this could have gone. 

One song blends into the next and we just keep dancing. Better than talking to people. Better than pretending they haven’t ruined what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. Better than thinking of what could still happen. 

It’ll be over in a month.

A lot can happen in a month. 

In tenth grade I dated that QB for a month just to get in his social circle, and he was practically made of hands. My pulse starts racing and I can feel the flop sweat starting to seep against this satin nightmare of a wedding dress. 

Randall whispers, “What’s wrong?” 

Are werewolves psychic? How did he know anything was wrong? Fuck. Well, if the fight is on then I might as well attack. “What do you think happens when this party ends?” 

“I don’t know. We go get some real food and talk shit about our leaders?” 

“Do you think you’ve just signed up for an instant pass to my body?” 

“No. Hard no. Look I’m an RA. I’ve taken people to student health and filled out reports with campus police. If you want … anything you’re going to have to make that really, really clear.”

As if I’d want anything from him. And also I’m insulted that it sounds like he’s not even going to try. “You don’t want me?” 

“Wrong question. The right question is ‘would I rather jerk off than commit a human rights violation?’” 

“Gross.” 

“Maybe to you, but also real. You’re safe with me. I use my powers only for good. No war crimes. I promise.” 

I can’t beleive my stupid husband just promised no war crimes and it’s the best thing that’s happened to me on my wedding day. The Order sucks. Yes, there are benefits but the cost is pretty high. I relax into the ease of dancing with Randall, and when Vera taps her glass for attention I stiffen and pull my head off his chest. Between the two of them which one is really on my side?

Shake that thought off. It’s a momentary lapse. He’s the enemy, sort of. And my husband. Sort of. 

I’ll have to navigate this next month carefully. 

Ninety minutes later Vera calls the party to an end and tells us she’s booked us into the honeymoon suite at the Dalton. 

Randall turns red. “I wasn’t planning to, uh.” 

She pets his arm like he’s a dog. “I know, but the honeymoon night is part of the ceremony. Do whatever works for both of you, but off to the hotel.”

***

The honeymoon suite at the Dalton is an expensively decorated sex den. There’s a bed of cushions in front of the fireplace, all with removable covers. Practical and maybe inviting to someone else but threatening to me. A freestanding mirror in one corner is ready to be angled towards the bed if that’s what you’re into, and there’s a couch with no arms near a TV that probably gets a bunch of really freaky porn channels. It’s possible Vera is actual Satan. 

I stay in the hallway but Randall rushes in and jumps into the bed then does a full starfish. “It’s huge. We won’t even touch by accident.” 

“You don’t have to sound so relieved.” I’m glad, too, but he’s supposed to want me and I’m supposed to reject him. 

“You look terrified.” 

“Am not.” I step into the room to prove it and close the door behind me. 

“Look, I’m not into rape. At all. I am actively anti-rape. This Order crap is crazy and we’re stuck here together, but you’re safe.” He slides open the door to the balcony and it just keeps sliding, one panel after the other, until the entire wall disappears. He dips his fingers into a giant cedar box and flicks some water at me. “Hot tub. Sweet.” His voice becomes a sing song. “Just two dudes chilling in a hot tub five feet apart cause we’re not gay.” 

“How does that apply, like, at all?”

“I’m just trying to take the edge off.” 

“Normal people would have drink.” 

“You’d be more comfortable if I was drinking before taking off at least some of my clothes and getting in the hot tub.” It’s not a question, but it’s not not a question either. 

Why is everything about this so confusing? I have to take control. “You don’t have to get in the hot tub.” 

“I don't have to but I’m going to, sooo would you be uncomfortable if I had a beer while I was in it?” He's like a puppy asking if he can have a treat, and he wants a beer not a case of Four Loko.

“Do whatever makes you happy, just don’t be naked.” I remember I have a plan - lead him on for 30 days and make him think this is going to get real and then The Order will destroy them all - and shove my suitcase towards the bathroom. “I’m putting on my bathing suit. Make me a vodka and diet tonic.”

My bikini looks as good as it should now that I’m the grand magus of the Hermetic Order of the Blue Balls. I don’t know if Randall’s into ass or boobs, but the ties on both covers look ready to untie with the slightest tug. He’s going to wish this was a real marriage. 

The walk from the bathroom all the way across the honeymoon suite and out to the private balcony seems ridiculously long. I’ve taunted men before but there’s a difference between seeing how many heads you can turn on a pool deck and having just one staring at you like you’re a cake and he wants to lick off all the frosting. 

Does the dog part of him give him a more skilful tongue? 

Also where did that thought come from? 

He offers a hand to steady me as I climb into the tub, and I take it for two simple reasons: falling over isn’t sexy and I’m going to have to let him get a good look at me if the Blueing is going to happen. He groans a little as I brush against him and I know I’m winning. 

“My drink?” I ask. 

“No diet tonic.” He holds up an assortment of bottles near a tumblr full of ice on the edge of the hot tub. “Still brought over your vodka and some regular tonic, Diet Coke, and rum.”

I position my arms so my chest looks its best as I move to the liquor, and he falls for it, stares, then catches himself and looks back up to meet my eyes. “Thought you weren’t into that,” I say. 

“Huh?” Gears turn behind his eyes and I can practically hear it as the facts click into place. “Oh. Yeah. Not into rape. That’s right. Big fan of bodies though. All kinds and shapes and your shape especially -” The beer must taste amazing because he just drops out mid-sentence to take a sip.

“Can I try that?” 

I swim over and straddle his lap with one thigh on either side of his legs and my butt on his knees then take the beer out of his hand. I give the bottle more attention than a beer bottle really needs as I take a sip. He knows exactly what I’m doing, but he doesn’t tell me to cut it out. This is probably the most fun he’s had all day, too. 

His voice cracks when he says, “So you’re a virgin, too, huh?” 

I’m completely thrown off my game. How the hell am I supposed to respond to that? I’m sitting in his lap practically blowing a Budweiser and he’s just flat out admitted that we’re both a couple steps behind the average sophomore. I can make this sexy. The Blue Ballening *will* happen. I say, “Why haven’t you ever…” Lip biting while talking about sex is sexy, right? I do that. It doesn’t feel sexy. It feels like I’m messing up my lipstick. 

“I had a serious girlfriend in high school, but it was important to her that her hymen stay in mint condition, so we stuck with oral.” 

I choke on the beer. 

He laughs. “Yeah I guess it was kind of stupid. We’re going down on each other Tuesday and Thursday afterschool and as much time as we can get on Saturday, but she’s still able to go off to college pure.” He even does the finger quotes to emphasize pure. “Anyhow, she calls me like two months into our freshman year and tells me that she had too much to drink and some guy named Derek played ‘just the tip’. I’m like ‘Were you assaulted or are you confessing to cheating on me?’ She’s Mormon and she’s like ‘Well I’m a woman and I was drinking so anything that happened was my fault.’ And I can’t really get on board with that, so I think she’s been through something pretty bad and needs my understanding, and then the week before I’m supposed to go home for Christmas break and see her she tells me she’s not coming home because she’s staying in Utah and getting married.” 

What the fuck am I supposed to do with this information? I’m in his lap, passing his beer back and forth as we take turns sipping, and he’s talking about oral sex with some girl who married someone else? Seriously? 

“Anyway, the rest of my freshman year I wasn’t really ready to meet anyone and sophomore year has just been a mess of magic. It cuts into the social life, you know?” 

There’s only one way to make him stop talking about this other freaking girl so I do it. I kiss him. I should have known that with all the exercise those lips get with talking they’d be good at kissing, too. Soft skin. Firm, confident movement. 

Counting kisses is a stupid concept - when you do it right they flow like water - but if you could we blow past one and roll into a dozen or more. I’m lightheaded - must be some sort of wolf side effect - and I grab his shoulders to steady myself. His hands find my hips, and his touch is tempting but safe. 

I’ve never met anyone like him before. Must be the dog side of him, knight if I’m being generous, that makes him seem like a good guy, a protector, even as he’s stealing the breath from my lungs and forcing my pulse to race. His hands are right there. He could press me into his lap. Grind against me. Make this better. Want me. 

The plan. I have a plan. Blue balls. I keep kissing him, for the sake of the plan, no other reason. I wouldn’t have guessed he’d be deliberate with his touches - the way he talks made me expect a frantic, grabby kind of guy - but he’s agonizingly slow, never trying to press me faster than I’m willing to admit I want. When I’ve finally scooted close enough that I can feel his erection reaching out to me a surge of victory rushes through me. He wants me. I slide my body against his, breast to chest, soft to hard, and he moans. It's raw and sincere and I’m suddenly mad at every guy I’ve ever made out with. This is the sort of adoration and desire I deserve, dammit. 

I whisper in his ear, “What do you want?” 

“To go down on you.” 

“OK.” What did I just say? 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Apparently my body has its own communication system that’s completely bypassed my brain. 

“Hold on.” 

“Why?”

“Gonna make you come, but I’m not trying to drown doing it.” 

I wrap my arms and legs around him as he stands up to move us out of the hot tub. Honestly it’s freaking ridiculous that I’m doing an impression of a koala while a soggy werewolf crosses the honeymoon suite, but his hands find my ass and he’s supporting me as he moves and fuck he’s strong. How did I not notice how strong he is? And he’s decent, you know? He’s not ‘accidentally’ poking around seeing what kind of penetration I’ll let him get away with. He’s holding me tight and safe against him. 

He lays me down on the bed so my butt’s near the edge then bends over, kisses me, and asks, “Anything I need to know?” 

“You’re only going to do what you said, right? Mouth only?”

“Can I have one hand?” 

I guess I look skeptical because he drops the request down to “One finger?” 

“You aren’t going to put it in my butt, are you?” 

“Not unless you want me to.” 

“I don’t.”

He holds up one finger in front of his lips like he’s a librarian telling me to shush. “Mouth and this finger.” Then he hooks it around one edge of my bikini bottoms and tugs. The wet fabric doesn’t move much.

“It unties.” 

He trails kisses over my thighs, looking for the end of the string and giving it a tug when he finds it. The fabric relaxes, but there’s another on the other side. It’s the same slow, agonizing wait as his lips mark their path across my body on the way to free my body and give him access. 

It’s a weird view I have of the top of his head as he kneels on the floor with his shoulders spreading my legs wide. There’s a rush of panic as the other tie on my bathing suit comes undone and that one finger he’s allowed unfolds the fabric and exposes my body.

I don’t have long for concern though because that first pass of his tongue knocks every other thought out of my head. His mouth really is There. And wow. There again and then a little to the side of there and then swirling around there and holy crap I have a new favorite thing. 

And then he adds the finger. 

***

I’m still a puddle, boneless and wet, but he’s moved us both onto bed and under the covers.

My voice is hoarse when I speak. There may have been some moaning. “So Tuesday and Thursday after classes and as much time as we can get on Saturday?” 

“That was a reciprocal situation.” 

I hate that I don’t know how. I’d have to like a guy a lot to be willing to do that, which doesn’t happen often, and then I’m afraid of looking stupid or doing it wrong. “I’ve never…” 

“Saw you with the bottle. You’ve got the basic idea. After that it’s just customizing it to your partner’s preferences, so teaching you what I like is on me.” He shrugs. “If you want to try it’s cool. If not that’s OK, too. I offered.” 

Fuck it. He’s a werewolf, not even a real practitioner, and he’s on workstudy. Not anyone I need to impress so if I look like an idiot while I learn to do this then who cares what he thinks. He’s already proven there’s something in this for me. There will never be a better time to learn to suck a dick. 

***

Two hours later two things are clear. 

One: I’m good at everything I decide to do. 

Two: If more coaches were like Randall so many people would play sports there’d be no obesity epidemic in America. 

And third thing: Project Blue Balls needs a new name. Project sacred hymen or something. I’m not going to sleep with him - I told Vera I wouldn’t - but I do believe in letting the market set the price, and the price of me getting off is him getting off and …well... this whole fake marriage peace treaty is an Order problem, not a me problem. I’m just going to swap orgasms with this werewolf as long as I can. 

Randall is asleep when the clock clicks past midnight, but I’m awake wondering if the 30 days count from the moment we said I do or if it’s calendar days and one is already gone. 

***

Their stupid den smells like an oak barrel stuffed with dirty laundry and the lighting in the bathroom is terrible. Still, we hook up there because I like knowing the other wolves can hear what we’re doing to each other. 

His RA job includes a room in the dorm and I like waiting until visiting hours are over then calling him to smuggle me in. He always gives me a lecture about forgetting my keys when we’re in the lobby in front of the desk attendant then he pins me against the wall as soon as the elevator doors close. 

My apartment has a walk in shower with a seat in it, but shower not-quite-sex isn’t as much fun as I thought it would be. He was right about the drowning thing that first night in the hot tub. He loves the height of my kitchen counters. I like turning on a movie for him to watch and seeing if I can take his attention away from it. Spoiler: I can. 

In between rounds of making each other come we order food and do homework. I convince him that my favorite Thai place is better than that Cantonese dump he likes. He brings over the ball and stick molecule modeling kit I didn’t buy at the start of the semester and my weekly test grade in chemistry goes up. I admit that track pants are comfortable, and he admits that I look amazing in the kind of clothes I like to wear. 

He’s basic as hell, but he’s honest, too, and when Randall tells me he’s proud of me for bringing up my science grade I know it’s sincere. 

He gives good hugs, too. 

I hate how much I like his hugs. 

I hate that I dream about him casually throwing an arm around me as we walk across campus. 

I hate that this will be over soon. 

***

That stupid glowing vase in Vera’s office taunts me. It was pink the day we go married. Twenty-nine days later it’s red. I want to know what that means and I refuse to ask. Maybe it’s in countdown mode. 

Vera’s voice makes me jump. “The light of passion and peace glows brightly.” Hamish is standing behind her, and together they look like one of those weird old funeral monuments where they do a whole body sculpture of the couple for the top of their crypt. They’re perfect and cold and I have no idea what either of them is thinking. I wish Randall was here. We’d make fun of the queen of ice and the king of the bar. 

Hamish pours two drinks and hands one to Vera. “To twelve more hours of peace.” 

My brain just about melts. “What do you mean?” 

Condescension pours off of him as he looks my way. “You’re constantly not-fucking in my house. The treaty isn’t sealed. Twelve hours to go.” He takes a sip. “Just don’t kill Randall the first minute you can. I’d have to kill you and then Vera would try to kill me-”

“Try?” Vera’s tone is a blend of teasing and deadly. 

I leave, but I don’t know where I’m going. Fury and frustration rage within me. I wish I was a stupid dog like Randall and then I could go tearing through the woods and scream at the moon. Instead I’ve got a knife, and sure I could do some stuff with that but I don’t know what I want. I know what the plan was, but if we don’t have the ability to surprise the wolves with a betrayal then what’s even the damn point of this last month? 

I head to the den to yell at Randall. I don’t know what I’m going to say, but I’ll figure it out when I get there. He lets me think out loud, probably to make up for the fact that he’s empty headed with no thoughts at all, and by the time I’m done with him I’ll have it all figured out. 

The door doesn’t slam the way I want it to, and when I try to stomp up the stairs I have to choose between risking snapping a heel off my new boots and a softer and totally unsatisfying pitter patter. That’s it. I’m done. Screaming it is. “FUCK!! Fuck fuck fuck!” 

Randall’s head pops around the corner at the top of the stairs. “Only if you want to.” 

“I don’t want your pity dick or your peace offering or whatever bullshit The Order has ordered. They ruined my wedding and I’m nobody’s virgin sacrifice. I’m Gabrielle fucking Dupres.” 

Arms crossed, leaning against the wall, casual as hell and driving me insane, he says, “Two things. One, you’re Gabrielle non--fucking Dupres. Two, if this was a real marriage instead of a time bomb, you’re a take-your-husband’s-name kind of woman, aren’t you? Gabrielle Carpio. It’s not bad.” 

“What’s your damage? Did all that wolfing out do something to your brain?” 

He looks hurt and I hate that, but at the moment I hate everything and there’s not a lot of space to process Randall’s feelings when my own are such a mess. 

“Gabi, I like hearing you scream, but not like this and not when I didn’t do anything. What’s happening here?”

“Why haven’t you fucked me? One little ‘oops it slipped in’ and we wouldn’t be enemies tomorrow. Why don’t you want me?” My throat hurts and there are tears trying to escape and the rage that made me strong and loud is sinking into something thick and dark. “We wouldn't be in this situation if you’d just gotten out your dick and gotten down to it like a normal person!” 

“I told you I’m not into rape. If you don’t want it then I’m not going to do it. You never wanted it. Never wanted me that way.” 

“You’re dumb.” It’s a pathetic comeback but he’ll be dead soon anyway so who cares if I look stupid in front of him. Who cares if I cry in front of him.

He comes down the stairs and wraps me in his arms and I hate it and hate him and he better never let go. There’s just too much going on inside me and it comes out in rough, embarrassing sobs. By the time I get my breath back his shirt is wet with my tears and I’m clenching him like he’s the only thing keeping me from spinning completely out of control. Maybe he is. 

His lips brush my forehead, and when he talks I can feel his breath moving through my hair. “‘We should fuck for the sake of world peace’ seemed like a really gross, coercive thing to say, so I just waited for some kind of sign from you that we could move past third base, but it never came.” 

I shove a hand against his chest but don’t really try to move away. “It came a lot.” 

“You really want to have a pun battle now?” he asks. “I will. I’m ready to go.” 

“Your shirt is gross. Take it off.” 

He does, and not to get romance novel about it, but he’s sculpted like one of the better art students really wanted an A and when I told him I liked the cologne he wore at our wedding he started wearing it all the time, so there’s the smell of sandalwood, rain, and ‘something uniquely him.’ But the locale - his stairwell with those stupid climbing wall holds jacked into the plaster - won’t do. 

“You have to tell me what you want, Gabi.” 

I dry my face with my hand, smile and try to look coy. “World peace.” 

“Clearly and unambiguously. ‘Hey maybe we don’t kill each other’ can be achieved a lot of ways.” 

He’s so good. So honorable. So careful with me. “I want to fuck a werewolf.” 

“I can call Jack.” So annoying. 

“You, dummy. Your cock. My vagina. Put those two together.” 

He brushes a soft kiss over my lips. “Your dirty talk game needs work but I’ll allow it.” 

“Yeah well I don’t have a lot of experience with dirty talk. My mouth is usually full.”

“That was hot.” He picks me up, bridal carry style, to take me to his room, and it’s ridiculous and over the top, just like Randall, and I love it. And fine, I love him, too.

And that’s how a month of foreplay led up to amazing sex that prevented a magic war.


End file.
